Though new churches were being established in Kensico, with their ex-members asleep about them, RoBards wanted Patty near him and the children in the little yard where the tulip trees had grown high.
The funeral was held in the house, and there was a throng. The road was choked with carriages. It was Patty’s last party.
Even Mrs. Lasher hobbled over in a new black dress. Her daughter Aletta had seen to her comfort; and the pride she took in being related to the RoBardses was so great that her tears were almost boastful.
Since the famous son-in-law, Harry Chalender, Major-General of Volunteers, was still in the East, of course he was present at the obsequies. RoBards watched him with the eyes of a crippled wolf seeing his rival stalwart. The insolent dared even to ask if he might stay the night at the house, and RoBards could not turn him out.
But the thought of Chalender added gall to his grief. He was standing by his window late that night, looking out at the tulip trees under whose enlarging branches his family was slowly assembling, when there came a knock at the door. He turned. It was Chalender—coming right in. He wore that wheedling look of his as he said:
“I can’t sleep either, Davie. By God, I am afraid to be alone. Do you mind if I sit with you awhile?”
He did not wait for permission, but sank down on the old couch. It creaked and almost gave way under him.
“Don’t sit there!” RoBards shouted, as if he feared an accident, but really because he could not endure the memory of the time he had seen Chalender there with Patty kneeling by him. It leaped back at him, rejuvenating his forgotten wrath. Again he wanted to hurl himself at Chalender’s throat. And again he did not.
Chalender, perhaps remembering too, shivered, rose, and went to the fireplace, thrusting his hands out, and washing them in the warm air as he mumbled:
“Many’s the cold night I’ve stood by the camp fire and tried to get my hands warm. That’s the only sign of my age, Davie: it’s hard to keep my hands warm. They’re half frozen all the time.”